


The Man With Gallows Eyes

by pure_bastard_extract



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-23 13:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14332995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pure_bastard_extract/pseuds/pure_bastard_extract
Summary: Alfie's new business partner, Thomas Shelby, turns up at his doorstep beaten within an inch of his life. With little choice in the matter, Alfie sets about trying to save his life, and eventually comes to know Shelby in a different way as he helps him recover.





	1. A Bad Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into the fandom. I'm unhealthily obsessed with Tommy / Alfie. Needs to be more of that in the world. Thank you so much to the great WhenTommyMetAlfie for all of your contributions and dedication to this pair. You were a huge inspiration for creating this.
> 
> I've only got a very vague outline in my head of how this will unfold, so feel free to make suggestions if you think of things you'd like to see happen. Very happy to receive constructive criticism as well, or hear whatever's on your mind. I'm on Tumblr, so come say hi: https://pure-bastard-extract.tumblr.com/

The chair across from Alfie’s desk – which he’s come to think of as Shelby’s chair due to the frequency of their meetings the past few months – sits empty, when it ought to be occupied by the man in question. Ought to have been over a fucking hour ago.

Alfie still had a scrap of patience left at twenty past, which was rather generous of him, being a busy man and all – but a full hour? Fucking hell. Who does Shelby think he is?

He cut off the finger of a man who kept him waiting this long. Well, maybe not cut, per say, if you wanna get technical about it. He’d pushed the end of a chisel through it. Only thing that was handy at the time. He’s always prided himself on his resourcefulness. 

He hadn’t meant to cut it all the way off, funnily enough. He just wanted the guy to piss himself a little – but the chisel went straight through like nothing. There was a little crunch and the bone gave way like a dry twig – popped right off on the table. Strange lookin’ thing, it was, sitting there, freed from the cunt it used to belong to.

He can’t remember what became of the finger afterward, or the man who lost it, but he still has that table, with the little dent in it, in one of the back rooms – and the chisel itself. The re-telling of this particular story, especially while brandishing said chisel, has proven quite useful for encouraging smart-mouthed or light-fingered bakers to fall in line, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make a new example of someone if need be.

Someone indeed. He wonders if Shelby is testing him, trying to throw him off with some kind of stunt. They’re partners in business, right, and it seems like there’s an understanding between them – Alfie likes to think there is, anyway – but you can never fully trust a gypsy, now can you? 

Determined to cool his head a bit, he surveys the mess of papers scattered about his desk. And what a mess it is.

Seems he’s got plenty enough to do here besides meet with Thomas fucking show-up-whenever-I-want Shelby. He’s got cheques to write, shipments to arrange, and several fresh batches of bread to inspect, and those ones have got to be fucking good – not that all of them aren’t good, mind you – because his newest client is more discerning than some.

Not like Shelby, who’ll drink any sort of fucking swill, apparently. Man’s taste in liquor says a lot about him, right, more than his clothes. That’s what Alfie thinks. Can’t change who you are underneath them expensive suits. Fancies the brown stuff, he does – though he probably barely even tastes it, the way he tosses them back. 

He straightens a little in his seat, wincing at the twinge in his back. He needs to decide which stack of papers to tackle first and get on with it – should probably make sure his new contracts are in order for tomorrow. He places his eyeglasses on his nose and sets about his work. 

 

\-----

 

Most of Alfie's workers have gone home now, some time ago, but he’s nowhere near done here. He’s in the middle of scribbling down some notes, telephone pressed tightly to his ear, when the door to his office bursts open. 

It’s Shelby, much to his surprise – he’s long since given up on that – though he’s not alone, and it appears something bad has happened. Very bad indeed.

“Hmm. Look, mate,” Alfie mumbles into the telephone. “I’ve gotta go.”

He drops the earpiece with a loud clatter on the desk without waiting for a reply.

Shelby dangles between two of Alfie’s men like a limp marionette. They’ve got him by the elbows and his feet drag along the floor as they haul him into the office. His head hangs forward, face obscured by the mess of hair plastered to his forehead, and there’s a steady patter of blood dripping from him onto the floor, leaking from his battered skull.

“Well fuck me,” Alfie exclaims, frowning at the sight before him. 

“Mr. Solomons, we found ‘im a couple blocks from here,” one of them explains. “Left out in the streets.”

“Someone got him pretty good,” the other man adds.

“Yeh, I can fucking see that, can’t I?”

Alfie snatches the cane propped up against his desk and shuffles around to have a closer look.

“Fucking hell. You alive, boy?” He inquires, tapping Shelby’s thigh with the cane. “Ay?”

There’s no response. Not even a twitch. Alfie’s chest feels tight all of a sudden. He's seen Shelby in a state before, but not like this.

Alfie reaches down to cup his chin, tilting it up to face him. His head is heavy in Alfie’s hand, sticky with blood, and his face is a mess. There’s a nasty gash above his eyebrow, likely the source of most of the blood. One eye is fully swollen shut and the other is heavy-lidded, unfocused. He looks right through Alfie.

But he isn’t quite dead, by some fucking miracle, divine or otherwise. Most likely otherwise.

“Well, fuck.” 

Alfie exhales loudly through his nose.

When he releases Shelby’s chin, his head promptly flops forward again, and a fresh stream of blood begins to trickle out of his nose.

“Hmm. Right, uh, put him down, boys,” he tells them, clearing some boxes and newspapers off of the sofa as quickly as he can. “Over here. This’ll have to do.”

They drag Shelby’s lifeless form over and hoist him down, folding his arm up so it doesn’t dangle off the side.

“Careful with him now!” Alfie warns. “Don’t fucking jostle him around.”

Alfie’s no medic, but he knows enough. He knows they probably shouldn’t have moved him in the first place, but it’s too late for that, innit? And what choice did they have? Last thing they need is the fucking coppers involved in this, surely. Whatever this is.

Shelby’s good eye flutters shut as soon as he’s settled and the men’s hands leave him. With the last of his strength spent he looks like a bloody corpse, save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Alfie has to lean in for a better look to make sure he isn’t just imagining it.

“Boss, we ought to ring an ambulance for ‘im. Get ‘im outta here. Gonna be a lot of trouble for us if he dies here,” one of Alfie’s men tells him, wiping Shelby’s blood off on the fronts of his trousers.

Alfie’s temper sparks at this, even though he knows the man’s words are probably true.

“Trouble, yeah?” He barks, jabbing his cane in the direction of the man. “You really think that’s what I’m worried about right now? Fucking trouble, hmm?”

“N-no,” the man quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for his own good, too, of course. He’s–”

“No fucking hospitals,” Alfie cuts him off, shaking his head. “No, no… someone’ll come ‘round and finish the job, won’t they, while they have the chance. He’s probably pissed off everyone within a thousand miles of here.”

“Sir, he’s gonna die. Look at him.”

Alfie stops pacing and fixes the man with his sternest expression, both eyebrows raised. He does not appreciate it when people make him repeat himself, not one fucking bit. The look appears to have its intended effect because the man takes a small step backward.

“I ‘ave looked at him,” Alfie says, voice deceptively calm, “and we’re not taking him to a fucking hospital, alright?” 

“Then what do you want us to do, Mr. Solomons?” The man asks, glancing uneasily at Shelby.

Alfie pinches the bridge of his nose, and the men maintain a respectful silence as he thinks.

“Hmm. Right, well…” he says, shaking a finger at them. “I’m gonna need Ethan for this. You’re gonna go find him for me. He should be around in the back somewhere. You know who Ethan is, right? Well, he was a medic.”

“Sir…” The man frowns.

“And you’ll need to get us some morphine or something, if you can manage that,” Alfie continues. “Because my partner here is going to be in a very, very fucking bad state when he wakes up.”

If, Alfie’s brain corrects him. He quickly banishes the thought.

“And get whatever else he says we ought to have for this, whatever he needs,” he concludes. “Have you got that, boys?”

The two men stand frozen, incredulous looks on their faces. One of them looks like he’s about to speak up again but thinks better of it. Alfie’s grateful for that, because there’s enough fucking blood on his floor already.

“Well then, go on,” he shouts, waving them away. “Fuck off! Quickly now!”

“Yes, Mr. Solomons,” they both mutter, and they scramble out of his office, nearly bumping shoulders in their haste.

Alfie turns to face the bloodied man on his sofa. He’s frighteningly pale looking. Even his lips are drained of colour, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his damaged face.

“You’re gonna pull through, my boy, so hang on,” he tells Shelby. “We’re gonna fix you up, and as soon as you’re right again you’re gonna replace this sofa that you’re getting your blood all over, alright? Least you could do after I save your fucking life and all.”

He strides over to his desk to fetch Shelby’s chair and returns with it in tow, setting it up in front of the sofa. His back has been giving trouble all day. So has his new client, fucking haggling over his prices. And now this. What crazy thing had made him decide to welcome this man into his life? Nothing but trouble. 

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and watches Shelby intently for signs of… well, anything. He quickly becomes transfixed by the slow rise and fall of his chest, unable to look away. He feels sure, for some superstitious reason, that if he does, for even a second, there will be a dead man in front of him when his eyes return. But nothing much happens.

There’s an unsettling quiet in the room, just the two of them. Alfie can feel it pressing in, like death is looming over his shoulder waiting for its chance to claim Shelby. He speaks his thoughts aloud to drive it away. 

“I fucking forbid you to die, mate, just so you know,” he says, taking off his hat and resting it in his lap. “If you can hear me, you better take note of that, yeah?”

There’s no response. Shelby’s features are slack and uncharacteristically serene-looking, aside from the swollen eye and blood caked in his hair, as if he is merely asleep.

It feels odd being free to study him without those cold clever eyes burning a hole through him. Almost feels like an invasion of privacy to look upon him like this, hard edges melted away, but the man’s not exactly entitled to any privacy now that he’s gone and near died in Alfie’s backyard, is he? No.

He looks ten years younger somehow, with his eyes closed and his too-big coat, knees drawn up slightly so his feet don’t hang off the end of the small sofa – like a bloody stupid boy.

“Shoulda seen this coming, Thomas,” Alfie muses. “This life, this is what happens to people like us. All of us, eventually.”

Still nothing. He twists his fingers in his beard thoughtfully.

“But I’m significantly better than you at not getting my fucking head knocked around, aren’t I, hmm? I ought to teach you a few things, mate.”

He can’t quite bring himself to feel sorry for Shelby, all things considered. But he is very disappointed by all of this. Alfie doesn’t have friends – not really, no time for it – but perhaps this is close to something like that.

There’s hurried footsteps behind him.

“I’m here, Alfie. They said to come quickly.”

“Ethan, my friend,” Alfie greets him without looking up. “We’ve got a bit of a mess on our hands here, as you can see.”

“What’s happened?” Ethan asks, somewhat out of breath, as he sets down an armful of medical supplies. “Who’s this?”

“Well, this man is a bloody idiot, clearly,” Alfie explains. “And someone’s given him a thorough kicking – not entirely undeserved, knowing him.” 

“Oh.”

“And I suppose it’s now my fucking problem.”

“Wait,” Ethan says, frowning “Is… is that Thomas Shelby?”

Alfie only nods.

“It’s really him?” Ethan asks.

“Yeh,” Alfie sighs wearily. “It’s fucking him alright.”

“Who did this to him?” Ethan asks. “Wasn’t you, was it?”

Alfie laughs sharply at that. It’s not like he hasn’t been tempted to wring the man’s neck before, mostly in the past, but the idea currently seems ridiculous.

“Plenty of time for that later, mate,” he says, placing his hat back on his head. “How bout you go ahead an do what it is you do.”

He gestures vaguely at Shelby.

“Sure, right. Of course,” Ethan says. He drops to a knee by the sofa. “But listen, Alfie…”

“Hmm?”

“This doesn’t look good. I was trained to stabilize men in the field. I can patch him up, sure, but there’s lots of things that can go wrong when there’s been a head injury like this,” he explains. “Things I won’t be able to treat. My duty was to get men to hospitals. There’s no real substitute for that.”

“Hmm,” Alfie says again, nodding. 

“He’d be better off if you did that,” Ethan continues, “As you no doubt know. So I assume there’s a good reason why you haven’t sent him to one?”

“Indeed there is,” Alfie tells him. 

“Probably best I don’t know why, then,” Ethan concludes.

“I would say that’s probably accurate, yeah,” Alfie replies, gripping his chin.

“Alright, well let’s get some pressure on that forehead while I check him out,” Ethan says, handing Alfie a small white towel. “There you go. Place it on the wound. Firm, but not too hard.”

Alfie rolls up his sleeves and presses the towel carefully to the wound on Shelby’s forehead while Ethan goes about his examination, checking his pulse and his breathing.

“Mr. Shelby?” he asks, lifting up an eyelid to look at his pupils. “Mr. Shelby, can you hear me?”

He tries squeezing Shelby’s shoulders, but that doesn’t elicit a response either.

“Hasn’t spoken a word,” Alfie informs him. “Not that he’s particularly chatty fella at the best of times. Had his eyes open for a bit though, before. That’s good, right?”

Ethan doesn’t answer that question.

“Let’s hope he stays unconscious for the stitches I’m gonna have to give him, because I haven’t any anaesthetic for him,” Ethan tells him.

“Well, he’s a surprisingly tough little fucker, this one,” Alfie comments. “He’ll get through.”

Ethan doesn’t look like he doubts that at all, but he also doesn’t look particularly eager to shove a sharp object into Thomas Shelby’s face.

“I should check to see if there’s any more serious injuries that need tending first before I look at that head. Make sure he hasn’t been shot or something, because that’s a lot of blood,” he says. “Let’s get this coat off him, shall we?”

Alfie helps Ethan roll him over and together they carefully extract him from the coat. He’s limp and boneless under their hands, and his limbs are difficult to manoeuvre. 

Once that’s out of the way, Ethan grabs his scissors and begins to cut away the shirt. 

“You missed your true calling, my boy. Shoulda been a tailor,” Alfie comments, watching him work.

“Bit of a shame,” Ethan replies, admiring the ruined shirt. “This thing wasn’t cheap, I bet.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Alfie tells him. “I feel absolutely fucking certain he’s got a hundred more of those.”

“So he’s not gonna wake up, see me, and punch my nose off my face?”

“Well, there’s no guarantee, mate,” Alfie tells him. He finds the thought of that quite amusing.

Ethan looks somewhat unsettled but continues about his work anyway, peeling back the strips of bloody fabric cautiously. 

Alfie dutifully resumes applying pressure to the wound on Shelby’s forehead. The blood isn’t as quick to soak through a second towel, which is reassuring. That’s one good thing, at least. There’s so much of it… on his face, his clothes, the floor... There surely can’t be much more left in the poor fucker.

Once the shirt is removed, the bruises scattering Shelby’s bare chest and ribs are revealed. They are various sizes, some darker than others, probably from blows with fists or feet, but mercifully there doesn’t appear to be any open wounds. Alfie can breathe a bit easier all of a sudden.

He’s a bit surprised by how thin Shelby looks with all of the layers stripped away. Or maybe that larger-than-life ego made him expect something else. He can actually count all of the man’s ribs. 

“Could be some fractures,” Ethan says, touching his side gently. “We’ll have a better idea later. Not too much I can do about that anyway. All that blood must have been from his face. Those usually bleed a lot.”

“So it’s just a head injury then, hmm?” Alfie asks hopefully.

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘just’. These things can be quite serious, like I said,” Ethan replies, averting his eyes, “and I can only see what’s on the surface. There could be swelling of the brain, or –”

“Hmm. Right, right.”

Alfie doesn’t want to think about those possibilities right now.

Ethan looks up at him skeptically.

“He’s going to need someone to keep a close eye on him, is what I mean,” he explains. “Assuming he wakes up. What’s your plan?”

Alfie hasn’t had time to think that far ahead – too focused on making sure Shelby didn’t fucking bleed out at his feet.

“One thing at a time, yeah,” he replies. “Just finish fixing him.”

“Let’s get those stitches in then,” Ethan says, rising to his feet.

He instructs Alfie to tilt Shelby’s chin back and push his hair out of the way while he prepares the supplies. The half dried blood on his forehead is tacky under Alfie’s fingers. At this angle, his good eye is open just a slit, but the iris wanders sluggishly in his skull, unseeing.

Ethan cleans the wound as best he can and braces a hand on Shelby’s forehead when he’s ready.

“If he hits me…”

“I’ve got full faith in you, mate,” Alfie tells him. “Let’s fucking get on with it, yeah?”

He feels somewhat reassured by the fact that Ethan considers this to be a possibility, however remote.

Ethan tucks the needle under the edge of the wound, and the torn flap of flesh stretches as he tugs the needle through it.

Shelby’s eyebrows draw together and his whole body jerks, but his head is easy to control. A low, agonized moan escapes him, and Alfie can feel the muscles of his temples clenching under his palms.

“You got him?” Ethan asks, angling the needle for the next stitch.

“He’s fine,” Alfie replies.

Shelby is relatively unresponsive for the remainder of the stitches, but fresh sweat pricks up along hairline and chest and his breathing becomes more rapid, coming in frantic little pants.

Ethan finishes as quickly as he can, hands steady and skilled. When he’s done, he inspects his handiwork critically.

“He’ll likely have a scar from this. Isn’t my best work,” he admits. “But given the circumstances, not bad I suppose.”

“Man who didn’t want scars wouldn’t be in this game,” Alfie snorts. “Looks like he’s already got quite a collection anyway.”

His chest is scattered with them – some silvery looking, probably older, and others pink and fresher looking. There’s a large one, thick and raised, that was definitely sewn up by an amateur – maybe even Shelby himself, the crazy fucker. Even a puckered bullet scar, Alfie notes with interest. Seems a lot of people have tried to kill the man. All of them failed. 

“Are you in business with the Shelbys these days Alfie? Why are you bothering with all this?” Ethan asks.

“Hey, listen mate, you said you didn’t wanna–”

“Yeah, yeah. True. I’m sorry. Let’s get him bandaged up.”

Alfie helps lift his head so Ethan can wrap dressing around it and secure it with the bandages. When they’re finished, they roll him back onto his side and position his head carefully in a way that Ethan says will help keep his airway clear.

“Did you manage to get him any morphine or summin’?” Alfie asks, wiping his bloodied hands off on an extra towel. 

“Couldn’t find any on such short notice,” Ethan says. “Anyway, I have no way of giving it to him while he’s unconscious, and it’ll be harder to assess how he’s doing when he comes to if he’s drugged.”

Alfie notes and appreciates Ethan’s use of ‘when’, rather than ‘if’, even if it was purely for his benefit.

“Right,” he says, scratching his beard. “What the fuck do I now?”

He feels very tired suddenly.

“Well, you should probably keep an eye on him. Maybe say a prayer for him, if you like, because we’ve done all we can do for now.”

Alfie can’t hold back a laugh at that.

“If I told the good Lord I’m trying to bring this fucker back to life, yeah, he’d fucking send a lightning bolt down right now and smite us both,” he replies. “And one for you too, actually, since you helped us.”

“Don’t remind me,” Ethan replies, guilt flickering across his face. “Lot of people would be very upset with me if they heard about this. Lot of people don’t like Shelby, where I’m from.”

“They don’t like him much here, either, apparently. So then we both agree that nobody needs to know, yeah?” Alfie tells him, gesturing at Shelby. “Because I’ll deal with whoever fucking did this when I’m ready. I don’t need ‘em kicking down my door. And I don’t want any fucking coppers touching this either.”

“Agreed,” Ethan replies, shaking Alfie’s extended hand. “Listen, I’ve gotta get home to my kids.”

“You sure you can’t stay a while longer in case anything happens?” Alfie tries, folding his arms over his chest. “Whatever you want for it, mate, you know I’m good for it.”

“Like you said,” Ethan tells him, stooping down to gather up the bloodied towels and implements. “I’m better off not being involved in this any more than I already have been. And my kids, they really do–”

“Right, right. The kids.” Alfie sighs. “Well, tell me what to do then.”

“Keep checking his breathing, watch for signs of shock,” Ethan explains. “Cover him up with something, make sure he stays warm. And if he wakes up–”

There’s that unpleasant word again. If.

“He might be very confused,” Ethan continues, meeting Alfie’s eyes. “He won’t know where he is. He might not be himself. He could lash out at you, or… or–”

“I would feel very reassured if he lashed out at me,” Alfie replies. “I’d take that as a very good sign indeed. Y’hear that Shelby? Open invitation to you.”

“I just want you to know what you’re in for, is all. Still think you should get him to a hospital, but if this is what you wanna do instead, then–”

“Got no choice now, have I?” Alfie replies. “He’s given me no fucking choice.”

“Well, good luck, Alfie,” Ethan says, heading for the door. “If you like, I can check in and change the dressing for you tomorrow when I get in,” he offers.

“Right. Very good. Thank you, my friend.”

 

\-----

 

It really hits him how tired he is after Ethan leaves. He was fucking tired even before all of this nonsense began. Now he’s frozen in place, unsure of what to do next, and his own breathing seems to fill the room with sound. All of this feels like some kind bizarre nightmare.

It’s surreal to see Shelby sprawled on his sofa, no matter how many times he looks – like he came over, stripped his shirt off and just decided to have a little nap. Now that's a funny thought. 

With most of the blood cleaned up, he looks a little less ghastly, but still pale as a fucking cod.

Cover him up. Right. That’s what Ethan said. He must be freezing, what with half his blood missing. With little in the way of options, he picks up Shelby’s coat from the floor and drapes it over him, tucking the edges under him to trap the heat in.

When Alfie’s knuckles come in contact with him as he’s positioning the coat, he’s startled by how cold and clammy the bare flesh feels against his fingers. He almost recoils at the sensation. Frowning, he fetches his own coat from the hook by the door and drapes that over him too.

“That’s better, innit,” Alfie tells him. “You rest that pretty little head, Thomas.”

He stands over him for a moment, wishing there were something more he could do. Nothing left to be done here though. He can only wait and hope lady luck glances at Shelby once more, despite all of many times he's cheated death already.

Now, what to do with himself? The realization that he's now trapped here suddenly dawns on him. He decides to keep working, since that's really the only option. Just work and wait to see what happens.

It's hard to focus, continually getting up to check on Shelby.

At some point, he has to rest his head on his arms, just for a few minutes. But then, once his guard is down, sleep ends up dragging him away.


	2. Out of the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy gradually regains consciousness. He finds himself in a strange place with a very murky recollection of what's happened, and he doesn't know what to believe.

There’s nothing but darkness all around him. It seems to span endlessly in every direction, gaping and bottomless. Feels like it could swallow him up. Trying to comprehend it hopeless, dizzying, and for a moment he thinks he’s going to be sick. 

There’s nothing for his eyes to focus on. He can’t tell if they are open or shut. It’s disorienting. 

Searching for other ways place himself in time and space, he realizes he can’t feel anything either. He has no awareness of where his body begins or ends. 

Something bad is happening to him. 

His throat tightens with dread.

It's the tunnels. 

He’s in the tunnels and they’ve collapsed on him, burying him alive. The weight of the dirt must have crushed his spine when it flooded into the cavity they’d been digging. That’s why he can’t feel anything.

And that explains why suddenly he can’t breathe. He tries to suck in a gulp of air and it fills his mouth but doesn’t make it all the way to his lungs.

He tries again. It hurts. It’s like there’s a weight on him, crushing his chest.

He’s panicking now. He can’t help it.

He’s going to die down here in this godforsaken hole. Another broken body drowned in the mud, stepped on as fresh boots flood onto the battlefield. There could be men above him right now, but they’ll never hear his cries for help under this suffocating dirt. They’ll never dig him out in time. They wouldn’t bother, anyway, if they are the enemy.

He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. Terror grips him, piercing his chest like a cold knife. 

He screams, even though he knows nobody can hear him. The practical part of his mind – still active somehow – insists that he can’t afford to waste the oxygen. But it’s not a conscious decision, it’s a raw frenzied instinct born of pure desperation, and there’s no way he could have stopped it if he’d tried. 

He feels the sound rip through his throat but he doesn’t hear it come out. The heavy blackness seems to dampen all sound.

It occurs to him that maybe he’s dead already.

He doesn’t have time to contemplate that notion for long though, because that’s when he senses them.

Out of the void, dim shadowy figures are emerging. They move silently and swiftly toward him like skilled predators. He can’t see them. He doesn’t know who they are, but they’re definitely coming for him, and their intention is to hurt him.

They close in quickly, looming over him, crowding around him on all sides. His heart is a runaway engine in his chest. They’re going to do terrible things to him.

He can feel his body now, vaguely. It’s heavy and useless. No chance of escape.

They grab at him, and he swings his fists to fend them off. He can feel himself doing it, even though he can’t see his arms, but his hands don’t connect with anything. 

There’s a heavy resistance slowing all of his movements, like he’s underwater – but the shadowed figures don’t seem affected by it. Only him.

He kicks and thrashes with everything he’s got. Every cell in his body feels electrified by panic. 

They dig their sharp fingers into him mercilessly, boring into his ribs and tearing at his face, leaving scorching trails of pain in their wake. The fingers push into his eyes, his mouth. They’re everywhere. They’re smothering him. They’re going to tear him to pieces.

He can’t breathe.

He has no strength left. He should have put up a better fight, but he’s exhausted and there’s just too many of them.

He doesn’t make the conscious decision to surrender, but at some point his body seems to give out all on its own. There’s a weight at the base of his skull that’s pulling him down, down… 

The urgency is fading. The hands on him are starting to feel distant now, the pain duller.

Are they killing him? 

It doesn’t matter. 

Nothing matters. He doesn’t know why he tried so hard to resist, because this is what he wants. Nothingness. It’s such a huge relief. He let’s the darkness claim him. 

 

\---

 

He’s not dead. Somehow. 

He can’t be dead, not if he’s thinking thoughts. He is someone. He’s aware of himself.

He still doesn’t know where he is.

He’s not in the tunnels anymore. He made it out somehow. Relief floods through him like a hit of opium. 

He can breathe again. The realization makes him feel almost ecstatic. 

He draws in a deep quenching breath of air. Again and again, savouring each one. The weight on his chest has lifted.

Everything around him is grey and hazy – just as endless and surreal as the darkness before. It reminds him of a waiting room for some reason, even though there’s nothing to see here. No visual clues as to where he is. It’s just… nothing. 

What the fuck has happened to him? He finally has time to wonder, now that there doesn’t seem to be any impending danger.

He struggles to think of the last proper memory he had – something he knows for sure was real. He needs an anchor.

Arthur. 

The name pops into his head, then a face. 

And then…

The two of them, careening through the field – long grass whipping at their knees, soles of their bare feet hitting the mud with dull thuds, bright sunlight making the corners of his eyes tear up. They’re scooping up grasshoppers from the ground and throwing them at each other, giggling and shouting. 

Arthur is a head taller than him, and a lot faster with those long legs. He manages to shove one of the insects down Tommy’s shirt. He shrieks at the sensation of the prickly, twitching legs and antennas against his skin.

No. 

That doesn’t make any sense. That’s an old one… very old. He hasn’t thought of that memory in a long time. Didn’t know he had it in him still.

Surely other things have happened since then. He knows they have, but his brain feels like a drifting cloud – things start to take shape for a moment, but then they dissolve back into an indecipherable smear before he can figure them out.

His father.

That’s an unwelcome thought. He doesn’t want to think about his father. 

He tries to block it out but the memory pushes its way into his head. 

Sour whiskey breath stinging his eyes. Large strong hands shoving him around, smacking at him. Hitting him. The sneer twisting his face.

The horses buck and snort in Tommy’s defense, hot air billowing from their flared nostrils. He hopes one of them will kick his father in the chest and kill him. 

The earthy smell of the stable and the prickle of the hay through the fabric of his shirt. Clutching his knees, blunt fingernails digging furiously into his own skin, cursing his father in the limited ways he knows how.

No. That’s enough of that. 

He wills himself to remember something else.

Ada. 

His mind seeks her out in search of comfort, as it so often does. 

Did.

Her fingers grip his shoulders, and her cheek is wet against his neck. His arms are wrapped around her tightly, engulfing her. He can feel her whole body shaking, struggling to contain her emotion. He has to drink in this moment – the feel of her in his arms – memorize everything about it, before he ships out. In case he never sees her again. 

This memory is vivid, galvanized in his mind. He drew on it countless times during the war to give him the strength to keep going, to help him remember who he was. What there was to come back to.

He came back. 

He knows he did. But there’s a gap in his mind. He can’t seem to place himself after it. What had he done with himself when he returned home?

He tries with all his might to conjure up something else, but the efforts quickly tire him. His brain isn’t right.

It’s as if he’s trapped in some sort of fragmented looping dream, drifting from one era to the next – a prisoner of his own mind. 

How long has he been like this? How does he get out?

Waves of panic flow over him and then ebb away, the sickening feeling repeating itself.

Eventually he gives up on trying to make sense of things. He just lets his mind drift. 

He’s so tired. 

Sleep and wakefulness become indistinguishable from one another. 

 

\---

 

He hears a voice. 

He’s certain it didn’t come from within his own head this time. 

It sounds far away.

“Are you in pain?” 

His brain sluggishly processes the question. 

Is he?

Pain. Yes, there it is. 

The mention of the word makes him aware of it all of a sudden.

His skull feels too small and his head feels too full, like his brain wants to burst out of it. It throbs with every pulse of his heart. There’s an impossible heaviness that accompanies the tight aching feeling.

He tries to form an expression, now that he can feel his face again, but that proves to be painful as well. The skin of his forehead feels tight and itchy.

He manages to raise his eyelids just slightly, with a great deal of effort. Piercing bright light filters in. It’s like looking out through a keyhole from inside a dark room. It stings the sensitive surface of his eye and sends a stab of pain directly to the center of his brain. He lets his eyes fall shut again.

His body hurts all over, like a ton of bricks fell on him. Every bone, every muscle is saddled with pain. Even his skin aches.

When he draws in a breath he’s hit by a sharp sensation in his ribs before he can get a proper lungful of air.

“Can you feel it when I do this?”

He doesn’t know the voice. He isn’t sure if he should know it or not.

Someone is touching him. He can feel it.

He tries to signal that he’s awake, but he can’t seem to make his lips move. The only sound that escapes is a very low dry noise from the very bottom of his throat. 

He can’t be sure if it happened – if he really made a sound, or if he just imagined it.

His mouth tastes like salt and metal. His tongue feels dry and too big – glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Mr. Shelby, do you know what year it is…”

He’s clinging onto this new thing, this voice, with all he’s got. It’s like a life raft in this endless nothingness. 

But then it starts to slip away from him. Maybe it wasn’t real after all.

He can’t prevent himself from sinking back into the nothingness.

There’s something wrong with him.

 

\---

 

Time seems to pass, though there’s no way of knowing how much. It feels like years, but that can’t be right. 

He can’t remember anything clearly. He’s half in one world, half in another.

He hears voices occasionally. They come and go. They remind him that there's something else besides this, because it's easy to forget.

He knows one of them. It’s a very distinct voice, but still he can’t place it. There is no name or face attached to it.

His inability to figure it out nags at him like an itch he can’t reach. It’s like there’s a barrier in his mind preventing him from accessing some of his memories.

The voices continue to ask him questions – does he know his name? Does he know what happened to him? But he’s unable to reply. He doesn’t know the answers to many of their questions anyway. It overwhelms him.

He can feel the heat of a hand on his, even though his body feels out of reach. Like he’s not really in it.

“That’s it, mate. Fight it.”

He tries. He wants to.

But sleep closes over his head again, pulling him down deep.

 

\---

 

A jolt of panic spits him up out of yet another nightmare and into reality. His eyes fly open and he finds himself staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. 

He’s only capable of focusing for one brief moment and then everything blurs into indistinct shapes again. His heart is thundering, blood roaring in his ears.

He feels lucid for the first time in ages. Everything is almost too real and immediate. 

He’s in a strange place, a strange bed. He’s half blind.

He could be in danger.

He cranes his neck to the side to have a look at his surroundings. The motion causes an agonizing spasm behind his eyes that sends him reeling. It nearly drives him into the center of his body again, back into the void, but he fights through it.

There’s someone else here with him – a figure in a chair across from him. 

The realization makes his stomach drop out with fear. Is he prisoner somewhere? Is this the person who did this to him? 

Why won’t his eyes work properly?

He struggles to focus, determined to assess the situation, even though it feels like hot needles are poking into his temples.

The figure in the chair is motionless. Head tilted back, hands in his lap. 

Asleep, he realizes. 

That's good. It grants him a tiny sliver of relief. Maybe he can still get out of this somehow.

Eyes burning, Tommy squints at the man to determine if he’s armed. If he would be able to overpower him, given the chance. If he’s a familiar enemy, or a new one.

The shape of his body, those clothes…

It’s… 

No, that doesn’t make any sense. His head is tricking him again.

Solomons? Alfie Solomons?

His thoughts race and tumble, tripping over themselves. What is he doing here? Did Solomons do this to him?

A memory flickers in his head. 

Solomons pointing a gun in his face – staring down the barrel at him with wide unblinking eyes. Eyes of a man who would kill on a whim, maybe even take pleasure in it. That casual psychopathy – like even the man himself doesn’t know what he’ll do next.

Dangerous. 

This word is inextricably linked to all of the memories of Solomons that Tommy can recall at the moment.

He watches the other man’s chest rises and fall slowly. He looks to be quite soundly asleep. 

He needs to leave right now without him noticing. He can piece all of this together later once he gets somewhere safe. Gets his head straight. Once he isn't so weak.

He looks down at his palms. They are shaking uncontrollably. He isn’t sure if he has the physical strength to pull this off. But he has to try. 

It’s going to hurt.

That becomes shockingly apparent when he tries to sit up. He barely manages to raise himself more than an inch off the bed before he collapses from the pain. His body feels like it’s packed with broken shards of glass, grating on each other, grinding into his nerves with every movement.

He tries again, biting back a raw noise that wells up in his throat. Everything hurts so fucking much. He feels a sickly sweat break out across temples and chest, and a wave of dizziness threatens to make him vomit. 

He wills it away, taking in a steadying breath.

Furious at himself and his useless body, he funnels all of his remaining strength into his next attempt. 

A scorching current rips through his head, blinding him momentarily, and he falls back down on the bed again, grimacing.

Again. He has to try again, but he doesn’t have any strength left now. His first pitiful attempts have left him sapped. 

He’s going to have to wait. He bites down on his lip, teeth tearing into the soft flesh, cursing himself for his weakness. His heart is racing.

He lets his eyes fall shut, resting every part of himself. Even holding his eyes open seems to use up energy he can’t afford to spare.

He focuses on his breath, counting each one. He decides when he reaches one hundred he will try again.

He quickly loses count, but it doesn't matter because he can’t stand it anymore. Gritting his teeth, dreading the pain, he uses everything he’s got left to roll over onto his side. A sob wracks his body. It escapes from his mouth before he can stop it. The pain is too intense.

He’s so stricken that he doesn’t even notice Solomons awaken at first.

Then he hears a groan and sees him shifting in his chair. He runs both hands through his already disheveled hair, messing it further, and blinks with surprise when he sees Tommy. 

Tommy freezes, holding his breath in his lungs.

“Well, what d'ya know,” Solomons breathes, rising from his chair abruptly. It nearly topples over backward behind him. “He's back from the fucking dead!”

Tommy can’t form words. His body is still raging with pain, curling in on itself.

“Easy. Easy now,” he tells Tommy, one palm extended in a placating gesture. “Don’t do anything stupid, yeah?”

Is that a threat? Tommy isn’t sure.

Solomons strides over to the edge of the bed and the fronts of his legs fill Tommy’s field of vision. 

“Why?" He manages to rasp, voice dry and scraping in his throat. "Why have you done this?"

“Oh, that’s very funny, Shelby,” Solomons replies, chuckling to himself. “Very fucking funny. Hmm. You think I’m the one who did this, do you?”

Tommy doesn't understand.

“Then…”

“Dunno, mate,” he replies, hooking his thumbs under the waist of his trousers. “But I will, soon enough. You can put your fucking money on that. I’ve got my ears on the streets. Makes me look a bit bad, don’t it, if I let someone get away with something like this.”

It seems Solomons isn't about to kill him. Not yet, anyway.

“Where am I?” Tommy asks next, once the pain subsides enough to speak again.

“Hm. Yeah, you’re probably quite confused, aren’t you,” Solomons says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “They said that would happen. Don’t get all worked up though. This is a little place of mine. Not sure how it holds up to your standards, but I couldn’t very well have you sleeping it off in my office.”

“Your office?” Tommy asks dumbly, head spinning. Nothing makes sense.

“Well, see, my boys found your bloody carcass, right, scraped if off the fucking street like a piece of road kill, and dragged it in to me,” Solomons explains, as if this is all very routine. “As if your personal health is somehow my responsibility. Hm. I don't know anyone who could possibly be qualified for that duty. And this whole thing’s been occupying a great deal of my time – more than two days worth of it now, roughly.”

Solomons is saying too many words. It’s hard to follow. He doesn't seem to answer any question directly.

Two days. That bit stands out though. He tries to process this information. It doesn’t match up with his experience. It feels like he’s been out of sorts for months.

“– and that’s time I can hardly afford to spare,” Solomons continues, oblivious to how bewildered Tommy is. “So I’m fucking well glad this has all been worth it, because–” 

He carries on some more, but Tommy can’t concentrate any longer. His head is full of words, and he has to make an effort to understand each individual one. It makes him feel tired.

Solomons is clutching his beard now, regarding Tommy with an inscrutable expression.

“You’re lucky to be alive, is the sum of it, basically,” he says. “Very fucking lucky indeed. I’ll take some credit for it too, though, I think. You’ve just about used up all your luck for one lifetime, mate.”

“Why?” Tommy asks hoarsely. 

Solomons frowns.

“Why what?” he asks, puzzled.

“Why are you helping me?” Tommy asks.

Solomons looks momentarily offended by that, as if he’s well known throughout the world for his kind and benevolent nature, but it quickly passes.

“Because I like you, Thomas,” he replies plainly, after contemplating the question for a moment. “Even though it’s quite apparently not in my best fucking interest, what with you being bloody suicidal and all.”

All of this seems like quite a lot of trouble to go to, given that they really don’t know each other that well. It doesn’t make any sense. There's something going on here. Something Solomons isn't telling him. If he's even telling the truth.

“What do you expect from me,” Tommy says, fighting to get the words out with his uncooperative tongue, “for… for doing this?”

Everyone wants something. Everything has a price. It's the way of the world. He's not so fucked up that he's forgotten that basic fact of life.

Solomons laughs heartily at that for reasons Tommy can't comprehend.

“Right, well, firstly, I expect you to rest up, get back on your feet, and get yourself back to normal, yeah? Normal being relative, of course, since you’re a very fucked up individual, aren’t you? And then after that, there’s the small matter of a sofa you’re going to have to replace for me. I think that’s fair, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of this next bit. Don't be shy. I'm open to suggestions for coming chapters. Thanks for reading!


End file.
